


Flowers Bloom With No Regret

by theMusicmaniac



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Fae & Fairies, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Hanahaki Disease, Handwavy for both, Happy Ending, M/M, Magic and Science, Mutual Pining, Summer King Tony Stark, Winter King Steve Rogers, You'll see how it works, so I'm not going to list all the characters that show up or are mentioned, sorta - Freeform, the focus is on Tony and Steve really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-11-02 06:33:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20653829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMusicmaniac/pseuds/theMusicmaniac
Summary: [Fae/Hanahaki Disease AU. Winter King Steve Rogers and Summer King Tony Stark]Note: story summary has been edited/changed. Lol, so if you've read this before, don't worry; you're not going insane.-----“It’s getting worse.” Sam finally comments, quiet in his despair, and neither Natasha or Bucky voice anything in response, but their expressions say it all.“I’m sorry.” Is all Steve can whisper, unmisted breath dispelling into the air, because it’s cold, he’s cold.It’s too late. It’s already far too late, and he wants to scream, wants to break down, wants to crack into a million shards of ice, wants it all to stop; everything he’s ever loved, shattering bit by bit. “I’m sorry.”“It’s not your fault, Steve.”“I’m sorry.”Steve watches through his own stinging eyes as Natasha goes back to staring out the window, the tears freezing on her cheeks. Steve is numbly glad somehow, to see it, even if the sight of his friend in despair is painful.Something is better than nothing, and soon, he knows, there won’t even be that much.





	Flowers Bloom With No Regret

**Author's Note:**

> So, I actually got the idea for this story while listening to the song Hypnotized by Years and Years (I'd recommend listening to it while reading this) and afterwards I had to write it. Title of the story is based on one of the lyrics actually. 
> 
> It was kind of just a writing exercise just to try and clear out some of the writing blocks I've been having for Designation Tony. I haven't been on AO3 for almost a month just because things have been hectic since school started and writer's block is horrible. I will finish the story, don't worry for those of you who have read it, but it's going to take some time, so be patient with me ;)
> 
> Until then, please except this meager offering of a Fairytale AU. *Lays story at your feet*
> 
> Edit: forgot to mention; I was too lazy to come up with a unique type of "blasphemy" (for lack of better word) for this fic. So they still say "oh my god" as a phrase XD. *shrugs*

Steve is cold. 

He’s _ always _ been cold. 

He sits there quietly, on his throne of ice, cloak of azure, gilded with silver and frost. Sunlight streams through the open windows of the room, setting the icy floor glinting with kaleidoscopes of colours. He watches the light dance, only looking up when he’s prompted by his second in command. 

Another subject kneels before him. They report what they will, and he watches them silently, pale blue eyes chilled to the core. He nods. 

Speak Steve. You need to speak.

The subject - a name that starts with O, they’ve come here before to ask for help and Steve had tried so hard to remember, stayed up for hours repeating the names of all those he knows, but it’s so difficult sometimes - they thank him quietly, expressionlessly, and takes their leave, walking silently out into the piercing light, the wind howling and whipping past the open doors into the hall. It’s frigid, but Steve doesn’t shiver.

Bucky calls forward another person from beside him. Steve nods in thanks and turns to the next.

It’s snow and ice for them. For all of them. That’s all they’ve known, and that’s all they will ever know. 

* * *

Steve sits in his room after his duties are over, sits and stares at the fractals of ice that decorate the walls. Bucky and Sam are with him, both slumped in chairs to the side of the room, and Natasha, who is lounging near the windows. 

Her red hair is a revelation against the icy backdrop, fiery red in a land of crisp white. It’s enveloped with frost, and yet the colour is not dulled at all in it’s brilliance for all of that. Her clothes are a mirror of Sam and Bucky’s, uniform of the royal guards.

“It’s getting worse.” Sam finally comments, quiet in his despair, and neither Natasha or Bucky voice anything in response, but their expressions say it all. 

“Steve?” Natasha asks when he doesn’t stop staring at the frost creeping slowly across the windows. 

“I’m sorry.” Is all he can whisper, unmisted breath dispelling into the air, because it’s cold, _ he’s _ cold. 

It’s too late. It’s already far too late, and Steve wants to scream, wants to break down, wants to crack into a million shards of ice, wants it all to stop; everything he’s ever loved, shattering bit by bit. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault, Steve.”

“I’m sorry.”

Steve watches through his own stinging eyes as Natasha goes back to staring out the window, the tears freezing on her cheeks.

Natasha doesn’t cry. But even the toughest people might make an exception when their heart is shattering. 

Steve is numbly glad somehow, to see it, even if the sight of his friend in despair is painful. Something is better than nothing, and soon, he knows, there won’t even be that much. 

* * *

It didn’t always used to be this way. 

Steve remembers - like someone hearing a voice calling across an abyss, distorted and echoing - how it had been before. 

Days of light and honest work, making gentle snows and ice during the winter months for the humans. Walks across seasons, living and laughing and loving. Fractured memories as a kid in the palace, his mother’s smiles, his father’s laughter. Spinning frost across fingertips with childish delight. He can’t recall much beyond it, beyond that feeling of intrinsic happiness, and even that is fading quickly.

Steve knows, without even having to ask, that he’s the last that remembers. The streets had been filled with stories once, at first in fun, and then in desperation. They had faded with the passage of time. He wasn't exempt from it, that desperation. Steve had spoken about it before, with Nat, Sam and Bucky, retold the stories over and over, a last ditch attempt to hold onto them. They held on the longest, they’ve tried with all they had, but the light finally died out months ago, and one night Steve had received blank looks in return when he had asked. Just like every one of his people out on the street. 

It’s the little things that begin to chip away until there’s nothing left. Until he’s the only one remaining. 

He's horrified and scared yes, but the truly terrifying part is, even _ that _ is beginning to fade. 

* * *

It’s hard to care, as time drags on, as he loses track of it entirely. As he goes numbly from one duty to another, from one empty gesture to another. Steve tries desperately not to forget, not to fade, but it's difficult when he feels so detached.

There are ceremonies and traditions still, because it is their charge and they go through them mechanically. 

There are trips to the mortal realm to bring about winter, the work unchanging for centuries, but it’s harsh and deadly because try as he might, Steve can’t always figure out how much is too much anymore. He watches as the blizzards rage and his subjects keep moving forward, going through the paces mechanically, and he pulls them back, as the Earth is frozen over with thick ice, as humanity is lost to the howling wind, but Steve can’t tell anymore, and neither can his people.

It's a brutal winter season for the mortal realm. It’s so hard to care like this, but hopelessly, he still tries. 

Bucky nods at him before Steve enters his living quarters when they arrive back that night, face blank. Steve hasn’t seen him truly smile in months, so he’s shocked at the small, broken one that suddenly graces Bucky’s face now. 

“Sleep well.” he says quietly to Steve. There's a flicker of something behind his eyes, but it's gone in a flash, the blank expression already returning as he goes to leave. Steve tries not to hear Bucky's words for the goodbye that it is. 

* * *

The reports start coming in eventually, like Steve knew they would. 

Sam doesn’t even blink, gives them a blank cursory glance and heads off to his other duties. After a moment Bucky and Nat follow, leaving Steve there without a word. 

The subjects that succumb to the cold look like statues, chiseled out of ice. They’re sharply beautiful, achingly perfect, and that day with the first of them - Steve stands there for hours, staring. 

It feels wrong to leave, even if he can no longer figure out why, so he doesn’t. Steve stays there that entire night, and mourns, because that’s what he’s done for his fallen people in the past. 

Duty is the only thing he has left, before the cold takes him as well.

* * *

“My king?” the servant says tonelessly. 

“Bring it in.” 

Steve stands from his throne and watches silently as his guards carry in a slim shape of red and gold. It’s hard to make out what he’s looking at from his vantage point - the hall is massive - but as they approach, Steve finds himself pausing suddenly before the steps of the dias. The messenger told him they found something. 

They didn’t tell him it was a _ person. _

Not just a person. A man. And the most beautiful man Steve’s ever laid eyes on, at that. 

He’s quite clearly unconscious as the guards set him down unceremoniously on the icy floor at the dias’s feet, and Steve crosses those few steps cautiously to kneel down next to the figure - cloak pooling in a puddle around him - to get a closer look despite himself.

The giant bruise that covers a good half of the man’s face detracts nothing from his beauty, with dark full lashes sweeping over sharp cheekbones, golden skin, full lips framed by a goatee. His unruly dark hair is a sharp contrast against the pale ice, as is his red and gold attire; which Steve only now realizes is a type of armour, and the glint he saw across the hall was gleaming metal. 

He looks warm, Steve can’t help but think, as he reaches forward to brush away a strand of hair from the man’s forehead, drawing back quickly when a thin layer of frost builds over it. It fades as soon as Steve shrinks away, melting into drops of water in the dark strands. 

Warm. Like the colour of Natasha’s hair. 

“He’s going to freeze to death.” A quiet voice observes mildly. Steve snaps his head up in surprise to look at the guard that spoke, who’s only reaction to Steve’s sudden movement is a blink. 

Steve realizes with a jolt, as he glances back down, that the guard is right; the man’s lips are already bloodless and rapidly on their way to a sickly blue. Steve has seen this in humans, the ones who stay out too long in his winters, and he knows it’s nothing good. 

This man is not his responsibility. Steve has no duty to him. Has no clue who he is. There is no logical reason he should help him.

Steve stands after a few minutes of uncharacteristic indecision, and finally orders the guards to bring the man to his quarters.

* * *

Once the man is arranged sloppily on Steve’s bed, he’s entirely at a loss for what to do.

Steve eventually decides to send the guards and servants away, because their icy presence in the already frigid room doesn't seem to be helping the man's condition. He's paler than ever, the healthy golden hue leaching from his skin, and his body becoming racked with increasingly violent shivers that shake the metal of his armour.

Steve darts forward and quickly pries it off after a moment's debate, because the cold metal isn't helping the man's body temperature. He is thankfully, wearing clothes underneath (there's a stab of disappointment at that, but Steve really can't figure out why), so he quickly chucks the armour pieces off to the side and stands at the opposite corner of the room, distancing himself as far as possible so he doesn't accidentally freeze the man further.

He stares, unsure of how to proceed afterwards. He doesn't really know how to react to this; Steve hadn't felt the bite of uncertainty for months. It's jarring and he's not sure he likes it.

Even so, Steve's already brought him this far into the palace. It wouldn't do to decide to abandon him now; so first order of business. He needs to find a way to warm him up again. He frowns down at his hands as he thinks, frost dancing idly across his fingertips.

In the mortal realm. That's it. They had a solution to the cold beyond body heat. A fire? 

Steve had seen the humans at it, those huddled in their houses against the cold, a light source crackling merrily in a brick hearth, feeding on fuel and giving warmth to those around them. It would work. Except.

How in the four seasons is he supposed to start a fire?

* * *

Steve ends up cannibalizing one of his chairs. It's covered in a thick layer of ice, but there's really nothing to be done about it as Steve hurriedly smashes it against the floor to get to the wood and cloth, and then piles up the splintered pieces next to the bed. The man is not in good shape, and Steve will probably be too late by the time he finally manages to get the stupid fire going.

He hesitated when it comes to how to light it. It's so cold here, there's literally nothing he can use...

Well. Maybe...an absence of cold.

No harm in trying, is there?

Steve reaches out a hand towards the wood pile, crooks his fingers, pulls. 

This is his domain, and it's scary how easily he draws it to himself, up his arm, and shudders desperately as the cold swirls up in a palpable wave, and it hurts, why does it_ hurt _, the horrifying numbness creeping up his wrist to his elbow, but it's not enough, the ice is melting off the wood but it's not lighting, so Steve keeps pulling keeps pulling keeps pulling...

It's up to his shoulders, creeping towards his neck when the fire finally catches, the wood smoking and bursting into flames. Steve releases the pull hurriedly and then darts forward to skirt around the fire.

The man has stopped shivering entirely. That's not good.

Steve places his other hand, the one that's not still numb with cold, to the man's chest, starting a bit when his fingernails clink against something hard. He disregards it though after a second, and pulls more, taking care this time not to go too far. He wants the man warmed up, not bursting into flames.

The numbness reaches the base of his fingers before Steve deems it to be sufficient to get the man away from freezing to death. Steve does this thrice more with some stiff and frozen blankets he scrounges up from his closet, ones that he hadn't used in years. He hasn't needed them.

He piles the warmed up blankets thickly on the floor, near the fire, and drags the man unceremoniously off the bed by the ankles, trying to touch the least amount of surface area as possible.

Steve can't help but wince in apology as the man crashes onto the blankets, and then hurriedly tosses another warmed blanket over him. Throughout it all, he doesn't stir.

Steve retreats to his corner again as the fire crackles merrily in the middle of his destroyed bedroom, unfazed by the cold surrounding it.

The numbness in his hand and arm doesn't leave no matter how much Steve rubs at them, so he finally ends up ignoring it entirely, staring instead at the play of flickering light across the icy floor. The flames are mesmerizing to watch, smoke drifting in lazy spirals out the window Steve had cracked.

Steve finds himself keeping vigil over them - the man and the fire alike - deep into the night, cannibalizing chairs when required, until he finally drifts off in the light of early morning.

* * *

Steve blinks open his eyes the next morning to see the man awake, crouching two feet away from him, staring at him in sleep. Steve doesn't jump, but it's a near thing.

"You're the Winter King." The man says. His dark eyelashes are even prettier now that they frame warm brown eyes, and he's watching Steve with a peculiar look on his handsome face. 

"I am." Steve says quietly, because what else is he supposed to say?

The man stares and starts cursing under his breath, standing up abruptly to pace back towards his makeshift cot near the still crackling fire. He looks agitated, and Steve sits up slowly from his lean against the wall to watch him.

The man’s back is to him now, and there’s a long moment of silence as his shoulders shake. Steve can’t tell what emotion it’s from.

"You're alive?" The man finally spits, whirling on Steve, his eyes flashing. "After all this time? And you're just here in your palace, living it up and ignoring the fact that all the kingdoms thought you were gone?"

Steve blinks up at the man's glare. It's the most expression he's seen on anyone's face in. He doesn't even know how long anymore. 

"Well?" He demands. Steve doesn't know how to respond to that anger, the emotion passionate and warm and lost to him. 

He doesn't feel any in return after all, so Steve just gets up silently to his duties. He has to do this. He has to do them, see it through for his citizens, until he finally goes as well. He's done his part in aiding this man's recovery. 

He opens the door to his room, his still numb hands barely registering the texture, and walks calmly down the hall, not expecting it when he's grabbed from behind and whirled around to face the man, who's now looking irate. His hands on his arm are warm, warmer than anything he's felt for a long time, and Steve jolts as his skin tingles with it, comes alive underneath the man's touch. 

He notices when Steve stares down at his hands on his arm, and drops them. There's an acute sense of loss, as the numbness streams back in. 

"Don't ignore me." the man hisses, even angrier than before. Steve's puzzled for a second, until he remembers faintly that not verbally responding is considered rude to some people. No one here minds much, anymore. 

"My apologies," Steve murmurs, a little stilted. "That was rude of me. It's just. I have to go. I have duties."

This doesn't seem to calm the man down like Steve thought it would.

"_ Duties _ he says," the man scoffs, glaring heatedly at him. "My father spent centuries looking for you, trying to breach your walls. He was consumed by it, _ died _because of it, and yet you're here, alive and well."

Steve stares. "Your father?"

The man frowns. "Howard? Howard Stark?"

Steve’s mind is a blank, and he shakes his head slowly. "I'm sorry, I don't recall who that is."

Now it's the man's turn to stare. 

"I saved your life." Steve says when the silence stretches on. "I've done my part. You're free to leave when you wish."

He turns and walks off, leaving the man staring after him in the hall. 

Steve's sure he's imagining it, but he gets colder with each step he takes away from him.

* * *

"I'm sorry."

Steve stops in his tracks, turning to see the man standing a few paces behind him. 

"For what?" Steve asks. It's unusual that he's still here. Steve would have expected him to be gone by now, because he's warm, and warm things don't belong here with them. 

"You saved my life." He says, "and I responded by yelling at you. You must be angry at that."

Steve frowns. "Not particularly." And again there's that look on the man's face, peculiar and confused and searching before he sweeps it behind a dazzling smile. Steve is a little dazed by the beauty of it as the man steps closer to him. 

"Well no matter," he says amiably. "I've apologized, you've accepted it, and let's pretend that is that."

Steve is confused. "That is what?"

The man laughs quietly, the sound as warm and alive as the rest of him but then pauses as he registers that Steve is genuinely confused. His face is rapidly descending into worry as his eyes flick over Steve’s face, takes in the blank expression, the vacant stare. 

"What _ happened _ to you, Steven?" He whispers, a frown marring his brow, and Steve tilts his head at the fact that the man knows his name, even though Steve's never offered it. He’s looking at him, looking and searching for something, and Steve doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know how to give him what he’s looking for. He’s empty. 

"Nothing." Steve responds haltingly, remembering it's rude to not say anything when you can't think of anything to say. A stupid rule in his opinion. If he has nothing to say he shouldn't be expected to speak.

"Nothing." The man echoes, looking dubious and worried. 

"Yes." Steve says, turning away. "Nothing."

* * *

"Would it be okay for me to stay here for a while?" The man seemingly pops up out of nowhere to ask the question as Steve steps back into the great Hall, having returned from more reports of his subjects succumbing to the cold. The numbers are great now, and the kingdom almost empty of life.

Steve thinks of chilled gazes, rigid, frozen bodies as he ponders the man's question. 

"No." He says. "You should leave."

The man steps closer. "I don't want to." He sets his jaw before lowering his lashes, and gives Steve a sweeping, appreciative look from head to toe. Steve, perplexingly - shivers. 

"After all," he murmurs, "pretty thing like you, I should think I'd want to stay and get to know you better."

Steve is confused again. He seems to be that a lot around this person. 

The man, in turn, seems to be waiting for some kind of reaction from him, but Steve hasn't the faintest idea of what. 

Finally, he sighs and throws up his hands. Steve hears him say something along the lines of "oh _ come on, _ that _ always _ works", which he's pretty certain he wasn't supposed to overhear so he doesn't respond.

"You should leave." Steve says again, and the man drops his warm smile and glares fully. 

"If you want me to leave, you're going to have to make me." 

"Why would I make you?" Steve asks, bemused, and Tony looks about two seconds from throttling him. 

"Um. Because you want me to leave?"

"It was a suggestion. Do what you wish." Steve finally says, and then he's watching detachedly as the man starts spluttering in exasperation. 

Steve's not sure why he's so insistent on this man leaving this place. It doesn't matter in the end, if he chooses to stay, and the fact that Steve was so persistent is a bit unusual. He turns to leave, but then pauses. "What is your name?" 

The man looks at him in surprise and more than a little bit of sadness. "Anthony. But everyone calls me Tony."

"Tony." Steve repeats, and resolves not to forget this one.

* * *

True to his word, Tony stays with Steve in the Winter Palace. 

Steve admits he had been expecting Tony to just go about his business like all of his other subjects do in this place, but instead, Tony follows Steve around everyday to each of his duties.

He’s silent the first few days as he watches Steve work, angry and sad and withdrawn all at once, a bone deep kind of sorrow. He keeps glaring at Steve and snaps at him the one time Steve tried to talk to him. 

Steve doesn’t get it. If following him around makes him unhappy, Steve doesn’t understand why he doesn’t just leave. Steve _ can’t _truly leave, not beyond bringing about winter to the mortal realm, none of his people can. The borders don’t allow it, but there’s nothing holding Tony here.

It changes though one day, when Steve finds Tony asleep beside the dias after he sends the last of his audiences away. No way around it, Steve picks Tony up, gasping as warmth floods his arms and chest from where he’s cradling Tony’s figure. It’s startling and a bit painful after the numbness, so Steve darts quickly down the halls, hurriedly depositing Tony on the pile of blankets near the fire and throwing the covers over him before Tony can freeze more.

Tony looks confused when he wakes up the next morning, clearly not expecting to wake up in his makeshift bed. Steve shrugs when he asks, and after that, something seems to thaw in Tony’s eyes, and he never seems to shut up, still following him around, but chattering all the while at Steve even if he doesn’t know how to respond. 

Steve can't make any sense of it. That's not how it's done here. His subjects have always drifted off to do their duties independently, leaving Steve alone to do his. Even those who Steve remembers distantly had been his friends. Natasha, Sam, Bucky. They leave him alone as well. They leave each other alone. So why is Tony following him?

"Why are you following me?" Steve asks one day, interrupting Tony's terrade as he goes on about something or other. Steve's not sure they're speaking the same language at this point, Tony ranting about some sort of "science" that is lost to Steve. 

"Okay, wow, rude." Tony rolls his eyes. "I was in the middle of a very important point. Has no one ever taught you manners, Steve? Scratch that-" Tony amends immediately with a sigh when Steve frowns and starts to think back. "I'm not bothering you anyway, so why does it matter?

"Oh, you're not, are you?" Steve says, and his voice is the same as it always has been, expression flat, yet Tony tilts his head at Steve as if he's said something interesting. The weight of Tony's full regard is a bit heady, but Steve meets his eyes anyways.

"No." Tony finally declares with a playful grin. "I'm not bothering you at all, your Highness. In fact I am a _ delight _, I'll have you know. Everyone says so. Well, not Pepper, but...she’s with Rhodey and not me, so her judgement can’t really be trusted, now can it?” 

There’s a hint of well disguised pain in Tony’s jovial voice as he says this last part, and Steve blinks, wonders if he’s supposed to know who these people are, like he was apparently supposed to know Howard. Tony pays his confusion no mind, and has continued talking once again.

“-anyways, back to my point you so _ rudely _ interrupted-"

And that, as Tony would say, was that. 

* * *

They fall into a routine from that day onwards, which is unexpected. 

Not that there is a routine, but that Tony appears to follow it. Steve gets the sense Tony isn't exactly known for having structure, based on his long rambling rants chock full of digressions.

Steve doesn't really need to eat, never has, so his schedule generally proceeds from sleep straight to work. Although he'll admit there was a time long ago where he remembers that he did eat, just because he could. He can't fathom why he would do that now. It's a waste of time. 

Tony, thankfully, doesn't seem to need sustenance to survive either, which further cements Steve's idle thought that Tony is not _ mortal _ either. He doubts a human could survive in his kingdom, but yet here Tony is, chattering away in Steve's ear as he goes about his duties. 

Tony's managed to cannibalize some of Steve's thinner blankets and sew it to the inside lining of the gold and wine red jacket he had been wearing under his peculiar armour. It appears to make him warmer, so Steve doesn't say anything except go find him some more blankets. 

Tony also sets up a makeshift nest in the corner of Steve's room. The fire has been shifted there, crackling merrily in that corner. Steve never has to set it alight again, because Tony appears to be more adept at that, and every morning he goes out cheerfully to gather more firewood because he had frowned in offense when Steve had smashed another one of his chairs to give the fire more fuel. 

"_ Hand carved _, Steve!" Tony had said, as if that was supposed to mean anything to him. The intricate details of the wood had been buried under a thick layer of ice anyways, but Tony still seemed offended so Steve had shrugged and dragged back some fallen branches from outside. Tony had done the same after that, every time the fire had grown low. 

They do that everyday, Tony whistling cheerily as he folds up his makeshift bed which consist of about a million blankets, stokes the fire, goes out to get more firewood. The first few days, Steve would leave while Tony does all that, to get a head start on things, but that would result in a rather offended rant from Tony, so eventually he had stopped doing it. He sits now instead on his bed and watches Tony do all these things, staying away from the fire as not to negate Tony’s work. 

Then they leave together, Tony talking cheerfully, and Steve occasionally interjecting with a question or a comment here or there. Tony seems to find Steve’s confusion at his references funny, gives sighs of frustration though when Steve doesn’t laugh at his jokes. 

“Why don’t you ever smile?” Tony had asked sadly one of those days, his hand coming up idly, and Steve jolts as fingers brush against his lips. They tingle with warmth, coming to life underneath Tony’s fingertips, and Steve is shocked from the feeling, so he takes a hasty step back. Tony blinks as if coming out of a trance, and hurriedly drops his hand. 

“Shit, I’m sorry-” he starts to say.

“-no, no, it’s okay-” Steve pushes out through numb lips, and then, because Tony had asked, tries for a smile, pulling up the corners of his mouth mechanically. 

Tony smiles back at him, even as his eyes are sorrowful, and changes the subject. 

The only time Tony is ever really silent is when he accompanies Steve out to visit those who have succumbed. The report that come in are few and far between now, when a while ago there had been dozens a day, and Steve would head out to visit each and every one of them. 

The first time, Tony had been horrified when Steve explained why they were visiting a bunch of ice sculptures. Now he stands and watches as Steve wanders around, kneels before each figure, says a prayer. He doesn’t say anything when Steve returns, but Steve can still see the morbid curiosity and sorrow burning bright in Tony’s eyes. 

There’s something resigned and defeated in his expression, even alongside the curiosity, and Steve can’t help but parallel it to the way Sam had looked at him once, when he had confided to Steve that he can no longer feel his hands. 

“Why is this happening?” Tony asks, voice full of pain and guilt as he watches Steve watch the frozen figures. 

“I can’t remember.” Steve says, because he can’t, he really can’t. He can never remember. 

* * *

Tony’s not okay. Steve realizes this as the days keep going forward.

He coughs. He grows feeble sometimes. Steve chalks it up to the cold at first, as he’s seen humans get sick from his winters, but this seems to go further, embedded deep into bones. It never goes any more serious than that, yet there’s an infinite amount of sadness everytime Tony hacks into his hand, and Steve doesn’t understand. 

Tony asks for a place to re-forge his armour one day, and Steve sees no reason to say no, so he shows Tony down to the basement, where the ice isn’t layered so thick, and an old forge exists. The place is long forgotten by everyone else in the palace, but Steve knows of it. He doesn’t remember why, but he gets the sense it’s important. 

Tony sets to work and Steve heads off, the first time they’re separated since Tony had arrived.

He comes back at the end of the day to see the place transformed, to the stifling heat of a true blacksmith’s forge, the stone walls damp from melted ice. The heat washes over him and Steve stares at the vision of Tony sitting on the workbench to the side, shirt off, staring down sadly at his chest. 

It’s the contraption _ on _ his chest that really takes Steve by surprise. There are black vines that spread across in a vice-like grip, the edges digging into his golden skin, lines of red where they’re deep enough to draw blood. At the center of Tony’s chest though, is a metal contraption with a light blue glow, clamped over the violent black vines.

“What is it?” Steve asks before he can stop himself. Tony jumps, relaxes when he sees it’s just Steve. 

Tony shrugs casually. “What isn’t it? My saving grace, my ruin, my second chance, my repentance.” He reaches for his shirt, his hands shaking. “Get out. Please.” 

Steve does, heading back up to his room.

* * *

“You probably want an explanation.” Tony murmurs hours later when he shuts the door behind him to see Steve sitting up on his bed, waiting. 

“If you wish to give one.” 

Tony, surprisingly, sits down next to Steve on the bed after a moment of contemplation - instead of his side of the room, which tends to be warmer - and settles in to speak.

“There is an old curse, back in my land.” Tony begins, picking at the hem of his jacket. Even being near him lights up Steve’s side with faint warmth, and Steve tries to concentrate on what Tony is saying instead of that. 

“Hanahaki disease they call it. It’s rare. And borne of unrequited love.” 

Steve nods his understanding.

“About half a century ago, my father - the Summer King - was attacked by one of his trusted advisors in an attempt at a takeover. He was working with dark magic, was imprisoned, but not before some casualties. I was one of the people that got caught in the crossfire.” 

“The curse?”

“Yes. I was young at the time.” Tony tilts his head down. “Wild. Careless. I didn’t give a shit about anything, not what I did or what other people thought. Not for any duty, and certainly not for my subjects. I wasn’t a good person. And I didn’t think much of the curse. We live for centuries after all. What could possibly kill us? Love? I thought it was ridiculous.” Tony murmurs sadly, smiling without humor. 

“Then I met Pepper, and I fell for her harder than I ever thought possible. It was after my father’s death, after he was killed at the borders of your kingdom. Pepper was already married though, and to one of my best friends no less. I couldn’t do that to him. Things didn’t seem so ridiculous anymore when I started hacking up rose petals.”

Tony raises a hand to tap at his chest, his fingertips clinking against the hard surface. “This is something I invented - an arc reactor. It slows the progression of the curse, even though it can’t stop it.” 

“There’s no cure?” Steve can’t help but feel a stirring of _ something _ inside the empty cavity of his chest, at the thought of Tony dying, Tony ceasing to exist. He can’t figure out what it is, but it’s a twinge and it hurts.

“Not a known one, beyond a love requited.” Tony lowers his hand. “That’s not going to happen.” 

“Maybe it could.” 

“It won’t.” Tony shakes his head resolutely, determination firming up his jaw. “I love Rhodey like family, and I will not be the one to rip his heart out with a confession. I came here because they would have realized sooner or later that something is wrong, if I had stayed.” 

Tony shrugs.

“I gave over command of my kingdom to Pepper. I had wanted to do that for ages, even before the curse. I was not a good King, not a good person, and Pepper had always handled it better than me. She deserves it.” 

Tony grimaces. “I left after that, for your place, because I had always wondered what lay on this side of your borders, why my father was so consumed with finding you or your corpse. It was one last adventure.” Tony’s eyes are piercing as they meet Steve’s. “I stayed here, instead of leaving when you told me to, or moving onwards, because you are kind to me, and passable company. But most importantly, you won’t care when I die.” 

Steve stares, thrown completely off. 

“You don’t feel.” Tony smiles sadly, reaching up to brush away a strand of Steve’s hair. “The Winter King lives up to his name. I’m a selfish man, Steve, and I’m scared. I don’t want to die in isolation, even though I should. You don’t feel. And I needed that when I first crashed here. I can’t be the reason for hurting another person. Better for Pepper and Rhodey to think I’m off being irresponsible. Better for you to be unaffected when I’m gone.” 

The silence is heavy after Tony’s confession, because Steve can’t think of a single thing to say, even though he knows now that Tony will be offended if he doesn’t give a response.

“Do you hate me now?” Tony finally breaks the silence, laughing through his tears then, as if he’s made some grand joke. 

“Why would I hate you?” Steve is more puzzled than ever as that question only seems to set Tony off further, the laughter spilling into hysterical even as he wipes desperately at his face. 

“I shouldn’t have decided to use you as a crutch for my death, even for a moment. I should be working more to _ save _ you if I had any shred of decency left.” Tony murmurs. “I see your people freezing now, and I should be doing more to help your kingdom, I should be doing more to figure out what happened, instead of following you all day, jabbering in your ear. You met me once before, did you know? I was only a child then, still vying for Howard’s attention, yet now I’ve aged to rival you, but you haven’t changed at all. I wonder if you’ve been frozen in time like this for close to a century now, not truly alive.”

Tony clutches at his reactor. “I asked you for a forge, to start on my armour, because just _ maybe _ I could help you somehow, fly you away from this place. There are people outside who could help, Pepper employs a court sorcerer and there are other kingdoms if that won't work. I’ve wasted too much time though. I was angry when I crashed and saw you were still alive, after years of Howard searching for you, and scared and cowardly. I want to help now, but I’m not sure the month I still have left is enough to make a difference. I’m sorry. It might be too late.” 

Steve lifts his hand cautiously after a moment and puts it gently on Tony’s shoulder. His touch can’t have been pleasant, icy as it is, but Tony leans into it with a sigh anyways, tension uncoiling. 

“It was always too late. You don’t need to apologize.” Steve murmurs numbly, feeling the warmth spread up his arm, and Tony looks up at him sadly. 

“You say that because you don’t care.” Tony responds. “Believe me. What I’m failing at preventing is truly despicable.” 

He sighs. 

“You used to be so alive.”

* * *

Tony spends more time in the warmth of his forges after that, working feverishly, and Steve does too. There aren’t as many duties anymore, as the population dwindles. 

Steve will be the last, he knows. The last to go, so he stays down in the basement with Tony, away from the promise of corpses, and watches him work. 

Tony does repairs to the arc reactor, repairs to his busted armour - that apparently can _ fly _ \- and Steve watches him, because it’s mesmerizing the way Tony moves in this space, the way he shapes the metal to his whim, puts the parts together piece by piece with singular focus. 

Steve contributes to the conversation more here, even though he himself has nothing much to offer. He can’t remember much of Natasha, Bucky and Sam anymore so he listens to Tony recounting his memories of his own kingdom and visits to others, of Maria his long deceased mother, of Pepper, Rhodey, Happy, Clint, Peter, Harley, Shuri, Nebula, Stephen, t'Challa, Bruce, Thor. 

Somehow Steve remembers these names. Howard is brought up a couple times, but only scarcely, and Tony gets a pinched look every time he’s mentioned, so Steve learns not to talk about him.

Tony laughs more here too, singing loudly as he works, dances around the floor as he waits for re-molded armour to cool, drags Steve up from his perch on a workbench and manhandles him about the room in the semblance of a waltz. 

“Why are we doing this?” Steve questions, as Tony maneuvers him. Or as much maneuvering as he can do considering Steve is taller and heavier than him. 

“We’re dancing.” Tony responds jovially. 

“This is not dancing.” Steve points out reasonably. “You’re dancing. I’m being slung around like a sack of potatoes.”

Tony stops abruptly in his steps because he starts laughing too hard, and Steve almost knocks him over when he runs into him. 

Tony, from then on, starts referring to their dance sessions as “potato-sack slinging” with a sparkle in his eyes, and Steve wonders how it’s possible for one person to be this contrary, brilliant, confusing. 

He’s dazzling, and Steve’s not sure he knows how to react to these concentrated glimpses of Tony in his fundamental _ Tonyness _, down in the workshop. 

There are still sullen moments where Tony becomes withdrawn, when something doesn’t work on schedule and he gets that helpless look to his eyes, infinite sadness when he watches Steve. 

And yet, Steve feels warmer here than he has in ages. It always fades as soon as Tony lets go, fades back to numb when he steps out of the room, so Steve tries not to linger too much on the feeling, tries to ignore it. 

* * *

“You used to draw.” Tony says to him one day, and Steve looks over to see him holding a dusty palette of colours and a stack of paper, certain pigments cracked from the years. 

“I don’t remember.” Steve answers, even though it wasn't a question, and Tony lifts up one of the sheets at the top of the pile, signed “Steve Rogers” in cursive at the bottom. The colours on the page are vivid, of a woman with a fierce stare and victory curls, and the emotion in it so palpable that Steve wonders how he could have ever created something like that. 

“Draw something.” Tony laughs, shoving the palette of pastels at him and a sheet of paper. “Your vacant staring is _ really _ creepy, _ geez _.”

Steve doesn’t know why he does it, but his very first drawing ends up being of Tony. He purposely makes it very very ugly, and leaves it on Tony’s workbench for him to find. 

Tony’s resulting yell of indignation is pretty satisfying to hear.

* * *

Steve doesn’t let Tony see the rest of his drawings. 

Tony voices out loud that he thinks it’s just so Steve can annoy him, that Steve is just plain cruel, that despite his blank expressions, Steve secretly holds a vengeful streak and - _ Steve! Oh my god, just let me see the stupid drawings before I set my armour on your ass _\- but in reality, it’s because all the sketches are of Tony himself. And Steve isn’t sure what that means. 

* * *

The first emotion that Steve gets back in the end, is fear. Crippling, all consuming fear. 

They’re almost a month in. Tony collapses in the workshop, clutching at his chest, and Steve’s heart stops as he thinks, _ this is it, this is the end._

He carries Tony back to their rooms, because Steve tries to ask what’s wrong, tries to get Tony to talk to him, but Tony is unresponsive, is mumbling and incoherent, keeps hacking and gasping and _ bleeding _ as the vines choke him, and when Steve touches him he’s burning hot, hotter than he’s ever been, delirious with fever. There’s no one to call for help, because time has come and gone and Steve is the last now. Is truly the last. The palace, the kingdom. Is empty.

Steve carries Tony back to his room because there’s nothing else he can do.

He sets Tony down on his makeshift bed, and it looks so meager now, _ why _ had Steve never tried to get him a better one, but his own bed is sheeted in ice, and Tony needs the warmth, so he covers him up and retreats back to his own side of the room. 

It’s only a couple minutes before Tony is thrashing again, kicking off the covers, whimpering helplessly, and Steve feels something inside him roil at the sight of Tony in so much pain, moves forward enough to hear the mumbles, “burning up - air - I can’t -” 

He sinks down onto the blankets without another thought and pulls Tony towards him, places his hands on his forehead, and Tony is a million degrees - just as bad as being ice cold because Steve had seen those mortal healers at work, _ cool her down, she’s going to fry at this fever _ \- and Tony is sighing and leaning into his cold touch, trusting. 

Steve doesn’t _ ever _ remember anyone doing that, leaning into him. No one except Tony. He gathers him up, wraps him in a hug and hopes that he’s enough to bring this fever down, to at least make Tony comfortable before he - before he - 

Steve gasps in surprise as Tony burrows further into him, face planted in Steve’s neck because his skin is cold, and Tony is so warm and so alive in his arms, but maybe not-not for much longer. 

There's something hard and unyielding and unnatural in his chest, present from as far back as Steve can remember, radiating with cold. It's something Steve's always equated to the indestructible and the forever, like diamond and vibranium. 

In that one second though, it shatters like glass.

Steve’s vision is blurry. 

There are tears streaming down his cheeks. He hasn’t cried in so long. 

Steve whispers to Tony for hours after that, talks more than he has in months, speaks until his voice is hoarse. He recounts Tony’s own stories to him, covers him in blankets again when Tony grows too cold, and embraces him when the fever shoots back up, and he whispers every prayer he remembers, ones of safe passage and mourning, and rusty unused ones of life. 

It’s the darkest hour before dawn when Tony’s breathing grows so weak against Steve’s neck, so weak that it’s barely there, and his pulse thumps feebly, and Steve knows he’s going to leave, this is the moment he’ll go-

_"Please,_” Steve begs into the icy air, to someone, anyone, _ something. _ “Take me instead, let him live.” Nothing changes as the sun peaks up over the horizon. 

Steve blacks out like that as the first rays of light touch the ceiling, with his face buried in Tony’s dark hair.

* * *

“How?” Tony’s asking him wondrously days later, his face alight with joy as he pokes at his unmarred chest, sitting up against his bed, and Steve keeps his face carefully blank of any feelings as he watches Tony from his own position beside him. 

“A miracle?” he offers innocently, and is warmed to the core by Tony’s resulting happy, carefree laugh. 

Steve resolutely ignores the sharp pain of the displaced curse underneath his own ribs, as the vines burrow deeper into his lungs, and listens silently to Tony talk about improving the armour quicker so that they can leave and figure out what’s happening to Steve and his kingdom.

* * *

“I don’t think I’m in love with Pepper anymore.” Tony says contemplatively one day, as Steve is once again sketching, and Tony is working on his armour. “I keep trying to figure out how I possibly survived, how this all happened, and maybe…” 

“It’s possible.” Steve says calmly, even though he’s anything_ but _calm right now. 

Tony keeps trying to figure it out. It’s the innate explorer and inventor in him, Steve knows, but it’s growing increasingly taxing trying to keep this secret from him. It’s not hard to hide the vines themselves, because even before, Steve’s never changed clothes in front of Tony. 

There’s no need to. Steve doesn’t sweat, doesn’t do any of the mundane things that humans do. He remains frozen, both in time and physically, and so that part’s not difficult at all.

But Tony’s smarter than he has any right to be, and if Steve coughs in front of him, if he hacks up any petals, if he falters at all, Tony will put two and two together, Steve’s presence on the night of his almost passing, and that. 

And Steve can’t let Tony know. He doesn’t want Tony to be in pain, doesn’t want him to be guilty, doesn’t want Tony to figure out a way to take back his burden, because if anyone could figure it out, would be as selfless and self sacrificing, it would be him.

Steve wants him to live. 

He wants him to go back to his Pepper and his Rhodey, wants him to be happy in his Kingdom of Summer once again, once he realizes that Steve is a lost cause, that there’s nothing he can do. Once Steve finally goes, whichever one gets him first, and Tony can be free of his burden of Steve and whatever misplaced sense of obligation he seems to have, and be happy again. 

Tony is too kind to leave, even if he might want to, while there’s still hope of saving him. So Steve will treasure what little time he has left in Tony’s company. It makes him sad sometimes, that he’ll never be able to see all the places Tony talks about in his fantastical stories, but it’s okay, because Tony will see them again, and that’s enough. 

“-which theoretically would be a plausible cure. But still...is it _ supposed _ to be that simple of a solution?” Steve concentrates back in to hear Tony’s question.

Steve shrugs. “Teach me how to dance?” 

“What, _ now? _” Tony’s giving him an amused and fond look, his arms full of armour parts. It’s so difficult not to smile back, to cross the floor and pull Tony into his arms, but he manages to keep the blank look locked firmly in place.

“Yes.” 

Tony laughs and puts down his armour, offering Steve his hand, and Steve’s helpless to do anything but follow.

* * *

Steve steals away to go visit the figures of Natasha, Sam and Bucky when Tony becomes distracted in the forge, because he needs to. He needs to mourn them the way he hadn’t been able to before. 

He still doesn’t remember too much of the events leading up to this, but certain memories have been trickling back in increments, as the cold retreats slowly from Steve’s skin, and the vines settle in and burrow deeper. 

Steve supposes it makes some kind of poetical sense if you think about it. One curse numbs you until you can’t feel at all and the other chokes you until all you can do is feel. 

One seems to be successfully driving away the other at the moment, but Steve’s not so naive to think that they’ll cancel each other out completely. The vines will keep flourishing until they destroy him. 

Steve was surprised to find that he knows the flower petals he keeps hacking up out of Tony’s view and earshot. He expected them to be bloody rose petals, like they had been for Tony, but instead they’re camellias, the ones that used to grow all around the castle. Winter blooming flowers, the exact vivid red and gold of Tony’s armour. It’s kind of fitting. Steve’s sentimental enough now to have cleaned and frozen the first one he found, perfectly preserved in a layer of ice. He wears that on a chain under his shirt.

Every petal that falls after that is another counting down a day. Soon Steve will have enough petals to make a full bouquet. 

He arrives at Nat’s location first, and has to sit down for a bit at the sight of her placid and empty face, hair no longer vivid red now that it’s turned to ice. 

Bucky and Sam’s aren’t too far away from Natasha, and he manages to speak to Bucky’s statue a bit this time, once he gets over the shock of it, voice hoarse. He talks to Sam as well, doubles back to Natasha to talk to her too, because if she had still been here, still been warm and speaking, she would’ve kicked his ass if he had ignored her.

Steve wonders if he’ll go where they’ve gone when he dies, or if they’re just trapped, forever in ice. He wonders if there was ever any hope of saving his people from this fate. 

* * *

“You don’t seem as frozen anymore, sometimes.” Tony tells him, and Steve tilts his head. 

“How so?” 

“I don’t know.” Tony reaches out a hand to cup Steve’s face, and it takes all he has not to lean into it. “You’re warmer.” 

“I don’t feel warmer.” Steve lies, tone inflectionless, and watches in concealed disappointment as Tony drops his hand. It’s immediately negated by the fact that Tony grabs Steve’s instead, raises it up to his lips to plant a gentle kiss on his wrist. 

“And now?” Tony purrs, and Steve swears he can’t stop the eye roll if his life depended on it, uncharacteristic as it is, because if he doesn’t do that, he might do something else stupid. Like grab Tony and kiss him. Or melt into a pile of goo.

It’s not the first time Tony’s flirted at Steve. It’s the first time he’s been aware enough to appreciate it. 

“I’ll thaw you out yet, your highness.” Tony continues with a wink, and saunters off back to his armour. 

Steve has to leave so he can hack up some more flower petals.

* * *

The day that Tony completes his armour is also the day that Steve makes him leave without him.

“I got set back a while, once I didn’t need the arc reactor anymore.” Tony explains after he had ran shrieking down the halls that morning, grabbing Steve and dragging him down to the workshop. “I had to find some way to mount it properly, and improve on an icing issue…” 

Tony bounces up and down on his toes and Steve tries not to find it adorable. “It’s functional now Steve! And it can withstand your kingdom’s apocalypse level storms. Now all I need is like a day! Two days at most, fix some handholds so you can come with on a ride and…” 

Tony’s trailing off and laughing and dancing around the workshop, and he’s so beautiful like this, his red jacket swirling, alive and lithe and graceful, and Steve’s breathe catches as he watches him, with no help from the vines.

Steve tempers his reaction, and settles for a restrained nod as Tony makes a full circuit of the room. “That’s amazing, Tony.” 

Tony pauses in his celebrating and sighs, coming closer to stand in front of Steve. 

“Will I ever see you give me a proper smile?” Tony wonders quietly, looking sad now. 

Steve almost gives in, because he can’t seem to refuse Tony for anything, but if he attempts a smile now, it’s not going to look rigid and fake like it did at the beginning. Tony will see everything, and that can’t happen, so Steve forces himself to remain blank. 

“We should celebrate.” He says instead, and that’s all it takes for Tony’s mood to flip. 

“I like the way you think, honey bunches.” he declares gleefully, and drags Steve out the door. 

* * *

Tony makes him go sledding. 

They dig through an old armoury in the castle, and unearth a bunch of old shields, some rounded, some square. Steve picks up the one that has a white star in the middle, surrounded by blue and rings of red and white. Tony picks up a square one painted red and gold, and then drags them out the door to the nearest hill. 

Steve suspects the sledding might just be an excuse for Tony to laugh at him when he faceplants into a snow drift halfway through, but Steve doesn’t care, because Tony’s laughing and sledding is _ fun _, something Steve’s long forgotten. That rush of adrenaline through his system, that high of going at breakneck speeds.

He laughs into the snow until he’s gasping for air, happier than he’s been in months, composes himself enough when Tony comes to get him and drag him up the hill.

They go again. And again. And again. And then when Tony gets bored they go for a walk together through the courtyard. There are flowers popping up through the snow now, ones that Steve doesn’t remember seeing before, but there they are, crocuses, calendulas, hellebores, and yes, camellias.

Steve doesn’t mention his returned memories, but lets himself talk more in Tony’s topics of conversation. 

“Sometimes it seems like a dream, y’know?” Tony’s saying, trailing his fingers along a snowdrift that’s piled to waist height. “That I survived. That in a couple of days I might get to see them. That we can leave and reverse all this.” 

Steve nods. “You miss them.” 

“More than anything,” Tony agrees quietly, and Steve feels a pang go through him at that, that Tony has to stay here with him through some misplaced sense of obligation, that Steve’s too selfish to let him leave early. “Sometimes it feels like I can barely wait a second longer to see their faces, that I’ll crawl out of my skin with it.”

Steve remains silent, but Tony smiles. “I can wait a day or two. Not a big deal.” 

Steve hums, and picks out one of the flowers from the snow. A crocus. He can sort of remember…

“Steve?” 

“Come with me.” Steve says, picking out a camellia and tucking it behind Tony’s ear, pocketing the crocus. “I have something to show you.” 

* * *

The potion isn’t exactly hard to make, once Steve digs out the old tome from the back of the workshop. It’s deceptively simple for a spell so useful, the crocus being one of the ingredients, but it still takes Steve an hour to make, when it would have once taken him ten minutes, because the spell is touchy, and Steve’s out of practice. 

Tony watches him curiously, asking incremental questions, to which Steve has great fun being contrary under the guise of his usual rigidity. Tony keeps squinting at Steve as if he thinks Steve is messing with him, but has enough doubt not to be able to confirm it. 

When it’s done, Steve asks for a token. 

“Anything from your kingdom would do.” he clarifies when Tony stares at him, confused, and Tony finally plucks a singular thread from his jacket. 

“Really.” Steve can’t help but say in exasperation, pinching the thread between his fingers.

“I look hot in this jacket. A thread is all you’re getting Steve.” Tony teases, but then falls silent as Steve drops the thread in, and a plume of smoke explodes up. When it finally clears, the liquid in the bowl shows an image, a beautiful red haired woman, leaning up against a stone wall.

“Pepper!” Tony cries, and then his face goes abruptly pale as they keep watching. The image retreats to reveal her surroundings. Dark and dank stone walls. Bars. A dark skinned man leaning against her in a heap. He’s bleeding, and she looks sickly and pale, an unhealthy pallor that speaks of weeks of mistreatment. 

“What’s going on, what’s happening? I-” Tony whirls as the image dissipates and his expression is horribly wretched and lost. “When was this?” 

“Real time.” Steve says, a pit growing in his stomach as well at the thought of what might be happening over in Tony’s kingdom. He doesn’t want to say this, wants to beg Tony to stay here where it’s safe, with Steve, but he knows Tony would never forgive himself if he doesn’t do something. “You have to go.” 

“I _ can’t _, Steve the armour’s not ready yet, it can’t carry two people-” 

“Leave me here.” 

“But-” and Tony's watching Steve with hesitance and palpable fear, as if he's afraid to look away for even a second, afraid of Steve turning to ice. That's not a possibility anymore, Steve knows, and he takes advantage of that.

“Does it _ look _ like I’m on the edge of death?” He asks, spreading his arms, ignoring the sharp tug of vines across his chest. “I will keep. Now _ go. _They need you.” 

Tony stares at him, his eyes welling up with tears, and then lunges at Steve suddenly, pulling him into a tight hug. Steve hugs him back haltingly, enjoying the brief warmth before it’s gone. 

“I’ll come back for you.” Tony vows, burying his face in Steve’s shoulder. 

“I know you will.” Steve replies, and lets him go. The armour descends onto Tony in a flurry, attaching and interlocking as smooth as anything, and Tony takes a step forward to leave. 

“I - wait.” 

Steve hurriedly pulls out the chain he wears under his cloak, and drops it, with the frozen petal, over Tony’s neck, tucking it under his armour. “For luck.” he says when Tony gives him a confused look. 

It’s stupidly sentimental, but Steve wants something for Tony to remember him by, when he’s gone.

“Stay safe.” Steve steps back as Tony nods at him, faceplate snapping down, neck plates shifting up with a whir, and blasts down the hall towards the surface. 

* * *

Steve gathers all the crocuses he can find after that, and makes a lot of the potion. He’ll run out eventually, he knows, he doesn’t even know why the flowers started blooming in the first place, but he can’t go like this. He can’t go not knowing what happens to Tony. 

There’s no sound from the spell, it doesn’t afford him that much, so Steve watches as Tony arrives back, as he’s immediately captured and thrown in with Pepper and Rhodey, as things go to hell with Tony in the middle of it all, and Steve is so scared, more frightened than he thought he could be. 

The crocuses run out, and when they do, Steve gathers all he has left and brings himself, vines and all, to the edge of his kingdom’s borders. It takes him multiple days of walking where it would have taken him only hours just half a century ago, because he has to stop every few hours and hack out petals and blood into the glittering snow. There are more flowers popping up in the fields, but Steve doesn’t have time to stop and make another potion. 

His limbs aren’t as strong as they used to be, and they feel weak as a lamb’s as he keeps plodding through snowbanks, as he keeps pushing onwards even though he can no longer breathe too deeply and has to take frequent breaks. 

The borders howl as he approaches, become seemingly more violent as he plods forward, a wall of wind and snow that kept them prisoner for so long. 

Steve doesn’t care anymore about the danger, walks straight into it and stands his ground even when it rips at him like sharp nails, as his cloak is grabbed by the wind and wrenched from him, and his eyes sting with shards of ice. This is for Tony. This is for Tony and Bucky and Natasha and Sam and Pepper and Rhodey and Clint and Happy and Peter and Harley and Nebula and everyone Tony loves and his people who he’s failed for far too long.

He can’t breath, in the centre of the blizzard, fighting with all of his might just to stay where he is, the wind climbing into his throat and pushing back any breathable air. He coughs, desperately tries to draw in oxygen and blood splutters down his chin as the vines constrict so _ tight _...

This is it for him. And by God he’s going to make it _ count._

There’s cold, infinite amounts of it around him, and Steve raises his arms, crooks his fingers, _ pulls. _

It’s difficult to do it now, where it hadn’t been before, but he keeps pulling as the numbness envelopes him, creeping up his ankles and his wrists, flowing through his entire body, piercing his head and his heart with it’s unbelievable cold, and he wrestles with it desperately as it tries to consume him from the inside out, wipe away all semblance of who he was, freeze him into fractals of ice. But Steve has a lot more to lose than just himself, so he fights with the last bit of strength he has left, he fights and he fights and it gives.

_I am your King._ _Yield._

The wind stops suddenly and Steve can see through the streaming of his eyes. He’s standing in the border forest of snowy trees on the edge of his kingdom, swaying in place because even as the blizzard was tearing away at him, it had been keeping him upright. 

It’s gone. He won. 

_ “Go. Help Tony. Save him.” _He thinks as he releases his grip, now directed and tamed, and collapses into the snow, the cold leaving him in a rush of wind that sounds like a relieved sigh.

There are dark edges dancing on the edge of his vision, creeping forward. His hands burn with pain. Steve holds on for as long as he can, because he knows if he closes his eyes now, he won’t wake up again, thinks about the warmth of laughter and music in his kingdom, Bucky’s smiles and Sam’s laughter and Natasha’s sharp remarks, and Tony, with red and gold glinting like a halo around him. 

And then he succumbs to the darkness.

* * *

There’s a blur of sound and cold, and it’s dark behind his eyelids, but there’s panicked screaming of his name from somewhere, the identity hard to make out against the fog that’s in his head. 

“-found him-” 

“_ -bleeding- _” 

“-Steve!” 

The last voice is the clearest, yelled out in a hoarse, broken voice and Steve reacts instinctively to that cadence, tries his best to move even as his limbs feel like lead. He lets out a sharp cry as pain shoots through his chest when he shifts. 

“-Steve, oh God, nonono, don’t move sweetheart, _ please _ don’t move, God you _ dumbass, _what the fuck have you gone and done now-” 

The voice is close now, whispering in a panicked way as gentle fingers smooth his brow, and he tries his best to follow instructions, tries not to shift again. 

“Tony.” he breathes, barely audible. 

“Yes darling, it’s me,” the voice answers, choked with emotion now. “_ God _ I’m gonna yell at you _ so much _ when you wake up again…” 

Steve loses the second half of the sentence to static as he drifts. 

“-do you hear me!? You’re _ not _ allowed to die, not like this, not when I haven’t even told you to your face that I love you yet, you _ can’t go like this, _ not for me, it’s not allowed, stay, stay with me Steve, _ stay-” _

Tony’s voice is fading in and out, and Steve needs to tell him, that one last thing he needs Tony to know before he goes-

“love…” Steve murmurs, and he tries his best to listen to Tony’s response, but he can’t concentrate beyond the pain slowly building in his chest, crescendo-ing into pure agony. His hands burn, and it’s only his inability to draw in breath that stops him from screaming.

“-collapsed lung-” 

“-get the healer-” 

It’s a blessing when Steve sinks back into unconsciousness. 

* * *

When Steve wakes up again, he’s no longer outside. 

He comes into awareness in slow increments, registers the sound of soft even breaths and warm sheets against his skin. He blinks open his eyes to see the ceiling of his room, unadorned with ice for the first time in a long while. 

He tries, experimentally, to move and is surprised to find he’s able to with very little pain, even though his chest, neck and hands appears to still be bandaged. He’s no longer in his formal robes, in a loose shirt and pants instead, covered in soft sheets and on a mattress he hasn’t seen in years, and he revels a bit in the feel of soft fabric on his skin, instead of ice.

That’s when he notices the other presence in the room, and once Steve notices him, he wonders how he ever missed him in the first place. 

Tony is there, asleep while sitting at his bedside in a worn black shirt and pants, unharmed and healthy and well, although there are dark circles under his eyes. His cheek is pillowed on his crossed arms on the bed, eyelashes fluttering in his sleep. 

He looks exhausted, and Steve doesn’t wish to wake him, but at the same time he can’t help it.

Tony is here and beautiful and _ alive _ when Steve hadn’t even known what had happened to him hours ago, so Steve reaches out one of his bandaged hands and gently cards his fingers through Tony’s soft hair, just to prove to himself that he’s here and real. 

Tony’s eyes snap open immediately though, and he sits up abruptly, leaving Steve’s arm hovering. 

Steve curls his fingers and lowers his hand a bit awkwardly, shifting under Tony’s unblinking gaze. He’s staring at Steve like he’s seen a ghost. 

“Hi.” He says, offering a small smile. 

“_Steve.” _ Tony finally chokes out, face crumpling before Steve’s eyes. “You’re _ awake, _you’re-” He laughs brokenly. “You. You fucking _ dumbass. _ I’m gonna _ kill you, _I’m gonna, I’m gonna-” 

“Hey,” Steve waves his hands, slightly panicked as Tony starts laughing again, half hysterical, tears leaking out of his eyes. “Tony, deep breaths, come on, you’re okay, you’re-”

“-gonna fucking _ kill _you, deep breathes he says-” Tony wheezes, and Steve’s worried now, about to get up and call someone for help, but then he stops in his tracks when Tony lunges at him. 

The kiss is unexpected, but not remotely unwelcome. Tony’s lips are warm, and it starts off soft, but then quickly sinks into something else entirely when Tony breaks it off quickly to push Steve until he unbalances and flops back onto his pillows.

And then Tony is there, warm presence pressing Steve into his sheets, and he kisses him again, undoing him with tongue and lips and teeth, and if the first kiss was tender, this one is liquid fire, setting Steve alight, and he can barely keep up, whimpering into Tony’s mouth…

“Tony?” Steve gasps dazedly when he finally draws away, buries his face in Steve’s neck. His arms come up automatically to hold Tony to him, enjoying the feeling of having him in his arms, the thump of his heartbeat, smoothing a hand down his back like it’s the most natural thing…

“You were in a coma for a _ month. _” Tony finally murmurs brokenly, voice muffled into Steve’s skin. 

_ Shit._ Not hours then. Not days. A _ month_.

“I thought you weren’t going to wake up.” Tony continues. “I thought you were _ dead _.”

“I’m sorry.” Steve whispers, at a loss for what else to say, because if Tony had been unconscious for a month, Steve’s not sure he would’ve remained _ sane_. 

“_Good,_ because it’s completely your fault.” Tony sniffles wetly into Steve’s shoulder. And then he draws back to stare down at Steve. His brown eyes are puffy and red rimmed with dark circles under them, and he looks even older somehow, world weary and tired. He looks a mess. He’s gorgeous. 

“I love you.” Tony says softly, and Steve freezes in place. His heart feels like it’s going to pound his way out of his chest. 

Never, in all the days Steve had spent in Tony’s company, had he thought it would end with this. With Tony here, both of them alive, telling him those words. Steve opens his mouth unsteadily to speak, to return the words, but Tony shakes his head, placing soft fingers against Steve’s lips, eyes sad and guilty.

“Don’t. I need to say this before I lose my nerve.” 

Tony waits for Steve’s nod before he takes his hand away. And then he pauses, looking unsure of what to say now that Steve’s fallen silent. 

“I used to resent you. Did you know that?” Tony asks after a moment. Steve blinks, not at all expecting that digression. 

“You were so handsome and charming and kind when I met you that one time as a child. The perfect king. I resented you every time I couldn’t measure up, resented you everytime Howard couldn’t see past the shadow of you to me. It was hard, when my own father left to go look for you without a second thought. It was harder when I landed all that time ago in your castle and saw you there, alive and well and uncaring while my own life had fallen to pieces.” 

“You’re telling me this, why?” Steve interrupts to ask dryly, a smile curling his lips when Tony rolls his eyes, flicks Steve’s cheek in reprimand. 

“Shush. Telling a story here.” 

“It’s a sucky story.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll like the ending of this one. Hopefully.” Tony draws in a shaky breath and pulls further away from Steve to sit up at the edge of his bed, looking like he’s steeling himself. Curious, Steve doesn’t follow him up, remaining where he is.

“I was confused at how cold you were that first week. I remembered you from my childhood as someone so vibrant, and alive with love and laughter. You made friends with everyone. You drew me a picture of a robot I told you I wanted to build, while I was still a snot-nosed little kid. And Howard was one of your best friends. Yet you were a complete stranger when I met you in your castle. I think I was falling for you already in that month before I collapsed, because even unfeeling, you were just still so..._ you. _ You in a way that's hard to explain.” 

“It was a done deal afterwards though. When you seemed to unthaw, and I saw more of who you were before. I fell so fast it was fucking ridiculous.” 

Tony draws away more, not meeting Steve’s eyes.

“I’m in love with you.” He whispers. “And I was almost too late. Rhodey’s the one who spotted you. We were out searching, and by the time we found you, your lips were blue and your hands were almost black and there was blood on your mouth and your breath was so shallow because the _ damned vines _were strangling you, and I was almost too late because I was too much of a dumbass to tell you I cared when I had you, and you were too much of an idiot to tell me that you took my curse for me, that the reason I survived is because you went in my place.” 

Tony gulps as his eyes drift shut, his hand coming up to press against Steve’s chest. “The vines disappeared when I told you I loved you. And your lungs collapsed because of it. You saved my life _ three times, _ the last when you sent the storm to my kingdom, saved me and my people, and I’m the one who almost _ killed you _.” 

Tony lowers his head, defeated, and Steve can’t bear the despairing look on his face, 

“I’m a selfish man Steve. I was when I met you in your castle of ice, and I am now. You deserve someone better, someone whole, someone _ good _ and kind and vibrant. So if you don’t want me after this, after my explanation, if you don’t want to be near me, you’re going to have to say so. Because this is it for me. You’re it. And if you let me have you, if you say yes to-to _ this_, then you’re stuck with me. I won’t be the one letting go. Ever. And you need to know that.” 

Tony finishes his explanation; meets Steve’s eyes as if he’s fearing the worst. 

And Steve, bewildered and high on the sudden rush of happiness that bubbles up and bursts, stupidly, starts _ laughing, _ because he can’t help it _ . _

Tony loves him. Tony actually and truly _ loves him, _ enough that he’s willing to give him up if that’s what Steve wants, even though it looks like it’s physically painful, and how could Tony ever even _ think _ that Steve won’t want him, that he’s not enough when he’s clearly _ perfect, _ and it’s too much so Steve starts giggling out of pure elation. 

And yet Tony’s shutting his eyes in response as if he expected this, shifts as if to leave, and _ no, _that won’t do at all. Steve tightens his arms around Tony’s waist and with a deft twist of his hips, flips them over to Tony’s startled yelp, trapping Tony beneath him. 

Steve’s straddling Tony’s thighs now, and with a happy little hum of satisfaction, leans down to kiss him. It’s a bit awkward at first, cause Tony keeps trying to pull away to speak, and Steve keeps refusing to let him, until Tony slumps against the pillows, sinks into the kiss. 

Steve takes his sweet time drawing away, because kissing Tony might just be one of the greatest things he’s ever done, and he sees no reason not to spend as much time indulging as possible. 

When he finally does, they’re both out of breath and panting.

“You _ asshole_.” Tony murmurs, and his eyes are still uncertain despite his words, like he’s not sure he’s allowed this. “I thought you were laughing at me. You let me think you were laughing at me.” 

“Laughing at you?” Steve snorts, smiling as grabs one of Tony’s hands. “No no no, see, if I were _ laughing _ at you, I would have to have the intention of _ not _spending every single second of my life trying to make you as happy as you make me-” 

Steve plants a kiss on Tony’s knuckles and smiles at his squeak. 

“-of _ not _wondering every single second how I’m lucky enough to have you love me back-” 

Another kiss, to Tony’s wrist this time. 

“-of _ not _ wondering how stupid you have to be to think I would ever _ want _to let you go.” 

Another kiss, slow and soft, on the lips. 

“I love you Tony. You give me too much credit.” Steve says giddily, and Tony’s smiling up at him now, eyes alight with cautious hope. “I wouldn’t have done all those things you accused me of doing out of the goodness of my heart if I wasn’t hopelessly gone for you. So you can stop your long dramatic monologues, because they’re not warning me away from anything. You’re stuck with me too.”

“I don’t monologue.” Tony protests. “And you were also _ plenty _ dramatic. You _ flipped _ me. I’m _ old _ Steve, my poor back.” 

“Oh well then.” Steve laughs, getting off of Tony and flopping to the side to lay next to him, “If your _ back _ hurts-” 

“Wait, what no, get back up here.” Tony complains, making grabby hands at Steve who rolls his eyes. He bats them away easily, laughing, and when that doesn’t work and Tony remains persistent, gets up entirely to plop himself down on Tony’s chair, just to be contrary because he knows Tony will give him that exasperated look Steve loves. Besides, he’s kinda stiff anyways, and he wants to sit up. 

“Tony,” A new voice asks suddenly from the doorway, “What the heck are you-_ Steve. _”

Steve turns to see Natasha standing there, staring at him. She looks perfectly placid, but her hand shaking on the doorknob belies it. 

“Nat.” Steve breaths, shoots up to envelope her in a hug.

“You’re awake.” Nat whispers tearily. “You did it. Everyone’s back. We won.” 

Steve laughs wetly, squeezes tight before he steps back from the hug, taking her in because it felt like only hours ago to him where he would’ve never been able to see any of them again. 

And quite suddenly, Steve is impatient, so impatient to see everyone else, to see his kingdom and his people. 

“I’m glad.” Steve says and Natasha smiles. 

And then promptly frowns.

“Why the hell are you not in bed?” She asks sternly, glancing behind Steve. 

“And why the hell are you_ in _ bed?” Natasha continues. There’s a moment of silence as Natasha’s eyes flick back and forth between them and then turns to Steve with an “oh _ really _” expression on her face. Steve flushes. 

“We aren’t- we _ didn’t- _”

“Whatever Steve.” Natasha laughs, interrupting him. “I’m going to go wake up the rest. Stay decent.” She points at Tony. “Talking to _ you _ there, troublemaker.” 

Tony sticks his tongue out at the door as it closes, and then promptly levels Steve with a look, raising his eyebrows in question. 

“_No, _Tony.” 

* * *

The greetings as everyone files into Steve's room at about 3 am in the morning is tearful, loud and warm.

The recount of what had happened in the time Steve was out courtesy of Nat, Bucky, Sam, and literally every single person Tony has ever spoken about during their conversations - Pepper, Rhodey, Happy, Clint, Bruce, Thor, Nebula, Peter, Harley, Shuri, t’Challa, you name it, they’re here - is as fantastical as Steve would expect it to be. 

Tony had arrived back to his kingdom just in time to see the last of those loyal to the Stark lineage taken away in chains, on their way to execution.

Stane - the same person who apparently organized Howard’s betrayal, the same person who had paid a king’s ransom for a spell of living death on Steve’s kingdom - _ that _ Stane, and _ shit_, Steve had known him once, considered him a friend, shaken his hand - he had taken the throne by force, had been slowly weeding in his own people for decades without anyone noticing.

There’s speculation on why exactly Stane chose to destroy Winter as well - because Steve was a strong ally of Howard’s, because Stane wanted the Winter Kingdom, because convincing Howard to go find Steve was an effective cover for his death. The fact remains though, that Stane had wanted the Summer throne for himself, and Tony’s departure had been the slow catalyst to unseating the throne and taking it. 

Steve had seen the moment of Tony’s capture through his spell, but not his escape a week later with the rest of the prisoners within the castle, nor the final siege outside by the citizens of the Summer Kingdom, fighting a lost cause when Stane had a powerful sorcerer on his side, up until Steve’s storm had arrived and tipped the scales. It had left Tony’s side unharmed, and howled up through windows, wailing and tearing away until the West wall had collapsed, and guards and civilians alike streamed in to help. 

They had won in the end, and Stane had been killed, but not before his final parting shot. That Steve was still dying. That Tony’s curse was what was killing him. 

The mood in the room after Tony, Pepper, Clint and Rhodey finish their explanation is already somber. It only sinks further when Bucky voices the question of _ why _Steve was able to transfer, be affected by Tony's curse, and Stephen Strange answers.

“The intent behind both forms of magic was a malicious one and cast by the same powerful sorcerer. When you offered yourself up-” Strange gives Steve a stern look that he smiles sheepishly at. “-the spell made the transfer easily because of how compatible the two forms of magic were. It doesn’t care about after effect. Tony was already suffering in that moment. But you weren’t in enough pain. It was a loophole, albeit a useless one. Until now I suppose.”

Steve nods. It makes a convoluted sense, even though he’s sure Strange is dumbing it down somewhat. 

“And on your side?” Steve asks Nat, Bucky and Sam. 

“The Living Death was already fading by the time Tony departed.” Bucky takes over this explanation. “The Hanahaki’s disease is what had stopped it, ironically. You were the key to breaking it, Steve. You and whether or not you’d fade with the rest of us. You didn’t.” 

“And you already know the rest.” Tony adds in quietly. 

Steve exhales. It's quite a lot to take in in the span of two hours.

“Wow.” Steve says, numbly. 

“You can say that again,” Clint snorts, leaning back against Natasha. There are choruses of tired agreement from around the room. 

Steve’s already noted, throughout the course of the recounts, how easy everyone appears to be with each other, body language relaxed and trusting.

Bruce is leaning on Bucky. Sam is poking at Thor’s war hammer, seemingly unconcerned with the fact that if it falls off Thor’s belt, it might smash his hand. Stephen, Pepper and Rhodey are all squished on one couch. Peter, Shuri, Happy and Harley are sound asleep on the other couch, off to the side, t’Challa perched on the armrest. Nebula is curled up on Tony’s other side, where he’s not pressed up with Steve. 

He basks in it for a second, because it's amazing to see after so much time spent in silence and emptiness. 

“We should talk about something else.” Steve suggests quietly when no one makes any move to leave, even though the explanations are finished. 

“Sure.” Bucky clears his throat after a moment. “Why don’t we talk about how Winter kicked all of y’all’s _ asses _ during last weeks obligatory yay-we’re-not-dead tournament.” Bucky finally suggests, eyes sparkling with mischief.

As the room descends into petty squabbling and arguments and half-hearted death threats, Steve settles back contently, smiling as Tony grabs for his hand, intertwining their fingers. He kisses Tony on the forehead.

Nebula rolls her eyes from Tony’s other side. 

“Idiots.” she scoffs as Thor booms about how Autumn’s might is superior to all those present, and t’Challa threatens to turn Mjolnir into a bouquet of spring flowers.

* * *

_ **Epilogue: **_

"Tones!"

Tony blinks up from his piles of paperwork to look at the door as it bursts open to admit a harrowed looking Rhodey, eyes scanning the room frantically. 

"Have you seen Elle?" He asks, still panting. "We're leaving in fifteen minutes."

Tony shakes his head, amused despite himself. "Don't look at me, honeybear. I've been here slaving over Pepper's paperwork since early morning." Tony picks up the sheaf of papers, waving it in Rhodey's direction to attempt to garner some sympathy. Rhodey appears to remain unmoved. 

"Feel sorry for me, honeybear. The Summer Queen sure is a slavedriver, isn't she?"

"Don't let her catch you calling her that, Tones." Rhodey laughs, leaning back against the door frame despite the fact that he appeared to be in a rush two seconds ago. "Or better yet, do. And let me watch the reaction."

Tony rolls his eyes. "Don't you have a daughter to catch?" And Rhodey jolts.

"Right, Pepper's going to _ kill _ me if she finds out I lost her again, I can't-" 

Rhodey shuts the door behind him with a soft click and Tony sighs, setting down his pen. 

"I know you two are there." He says loudly, shifting one of the useless documents to the back. Sure enough, two small figures tumble out of Tony's wardrobe a couple seconds later, both with matching grins. 

"Elle, you're going to give your father an aneurysm." Tony laughs, watching as one of the small figures shrug, unrepentant. "He worries, y'know." Tony pauses. "About your mother, that is. She has the world's most effective disappointed looks."

Elle wrinkles her nose. 

"Ah, see, you know what I'm talking about." Tony points at her, and Elle sticks out her tongue. The other girl giggles loudly. 

"And what are _ you _ smiling about, young lady?" Tony asks, mock annoyed as he rounds on Morgan. "Are you _ laughing _ at me? How _ dare_."

"Papa has worse disappointing looks, daddy." Morgan points out with a serious nod. 

Tony hums. "You're right, he does, daughter mine. Which he's going to level directly at you two when he finds out what mischief you've been up to. Why were you hiding in a closet?" Tony crouches down. "That is the _ worst _ place to hide you know. That's the first place people check. That and under the bed."

"I don't wanna go back." Elle frowns stubbornly, grabbing for Morgan's hands, and Tony narrowly stops from cooing at how adorable the two are. That doesn't usually go over well with headstrong kids. "I won't be able to see Morgan anymore."

"Sweetie, that's unavoidable when you live in different places." Tony explains. "You'll see each other again for other visits."

The combined force of two toddlers pouting is a powerful thing.

"Oh fine." Tony laughs after a couple seconds of wide eyes and lip wobbling. "You're regular criminals, aren't you? Get back into your stupid closet, we'll ride this out until your mother comes to yell at me. If anyone asks, you're a pirate" Tony points at Elle, who giggles. "-and you're an accountant." Morgan nods solemnly. 

"And what are you up to now?" A voice asks from the doorway. Tony's head snaps up to see the warm gaze of his husband watching them amusedly from the open door, blue eyes sparkling.

"Like we rehearsed, children!" Tony declares. 

"Papa, I'm countant!" Morgan yells right on cue, Elle bursting into giggles instead of saying anything. Tony sighs.

"Close enough." He groans as he gets back to his feet, the girls immediately mimicking the sound. 

"Rude."

Tony grins as he turns to Steve, taking in the vision of him leaning against the doorframe. The cut of that suit is _ very _ flattering. "Hey sweetie. When did you get back?" 

Steve walks in fully, shutting the door behind him with a soft click and a smile. "About an hour ago at most. Mind telling me why Rhodey is yelling all around the castle about his dead, kidnapped daughter, which you seem to be in possession of this very moment?"

"Lies and slander." Tony says, sidling closer with a small grin. "I deny knowing anything of the sort."

"Oh I see." Steve looks amused instead of disappointed here, which is always a win in Tony's books. "So I suppose you wouldn't care at all to know that Pepper is about two seconds away from joining in.

Tony considers this information for a second.

"Alright kiddies, out you go." He says swinging Elle up into his arms. She whines at him, and Tony grins. "Uncle Tony loves you sweetpea, but not enough to face the fury of your mother. Let's go."

Tony hears Steve laugh as he picks up Morgan behind him, who greets him with a shout of "Papa!" and a kiss on the cheek. 

Tony smiles when Steve falls into step beside him, and in no time at all, they make it down to the courtyard where the Sam, Bucky, Nat, Bruce, Peter and Clint are waiting along with Pepper and Rhodey. 

The vehicle is parked beside them, prepped and ready to go. It's sleek and looks out of place among the ancient architecture of the castle, although it's become commonplace despite that. All of the kingdoms have become an amalgamation between magic and technology in the last couple years, partially due to Tony's idle inventing, and Stephen's spells. This particular vehicle is called the Quinjet, used for border crossings. 

"Tony." Pepper rolls her eyes fondly as she steps forward to accept her daughter. "Why am I not surprised."

"Hey you should be thanking me," Tony protests, "I'm the one who found her."

"Yes, and for that we are _ so _ grateful." Rhodey deadpans dryly. "Low blow Tones."

"You love me."

Rhodey laughs, and soon the courtyard is filled with the sound of well wishes and goodbyes (tearful between Morgan and Elle) as the luggage is loaded onto the back and Pepper, Elle and Rhodey climb in to make their way back across the border. They've got a Summer Kingdom to run after all.

Morgan begins squirming in Steve's arms as the Quinjet makes its ascent up into the air, and she promptly darts over to Peter as soon as her feet touch the ground. 

“Two hours outside and then you have lessons.” Steve reminds Morgan’s retreating figure, who turns around and pouts at him. 

“That only works on your daddy, princess.” 

Tony laughs as Morgan sticks out her tongue, running the rest of the way to Peter.

“Just for that little comment, you’re the one going to wrangle her when it comes time for her lessons.” Tony grumbles good naturedly to Steve as they start heading back to the castle. “‘Only works on your daddy’ huh. We’ll _ see _ then.” 

Steve laughs and grabs Tony’s hand, linking their fingers. “I missed you too, honey.” 

Tony hums, smiling. “How was the trip?" 

They walk leisurely through the halls as Steve talks, transformed completely from how Tony remembered it to be, all those years ago when he had first met Steve. 

The Winter Palace was always beautiful - remaining in cool tones of colour - but it sparkles with life now instead of frigid cold. It's no longer covered with ice, and it's bustling with people, servants and guards rushing around to do their business and to laugh and talk. 

"Overall, it was the same as it always is, when it comes to Thor," Steve comments fondly as they near the door of their living quarters. "Newest trade negotiations are finalized, and Thor told me to tell you he's bringing over his brother to meet us next time he comes over. Loki is...interesting."

"Interesting how?"

"Interesting as in, he gave Thor's helmet working wings in the middle of his country address. It flew away."

Tony snorts. "I _ told _ Thor his helmet is weird." 

He enters into the room, Steve following behind to close the door with a soft click.

"I like him." Steve comments cheerily. 

"You like _ everyone _." Tony points out dryly. "It's enough to make a man jealous." He pouts exaggeratedly, sticking out his bottom lip to ridiculous amounts. Steve snorts and promptly pulls Tony into a soft kiss, crowding him up against the door. 

It’s still a revelation to him sometimes, that he gets to have this, gets to have _ Steve, _ vivacious and spirited and warm. That they’re both here, and alive, and Steve is his _ husband_, with a wonderful daughter and tight knit family, ruling their kingdom and watching over their people, who are flourishing. It’s a far-cry to those early days when Tony had crashed, desperate and angry and on the brink of death to see a frozen kingdom housing the most beautiful man Tony had ever laid eyes on, beautiful in a glittering icy way, and just as unfeeling. 

It hasn’t all been easy. The aftermath of both the attempt at an overthrow on Summer’s side and the curse on Winter had been taxing on all of them. It had taken a long time in the recovery, where Tony and Steve had been separated in their respective kingdoms, trying to undo the damage created. 

Addresses to his people with full disclosure, repairing damaged architecture and helping those injured, and still bringing about the changing of the seasons to the mortal realm. It had been months sometimes before Tony and Steve could even meet, which resulted in arguments as doubt set in, and fear from their respective nightmares in the aftermath, until Tony had finally become fed up with the entire situation, marched his way to a clergy during one of their few meetings, with Steve in tow and demanded he marry them. 

And that was that. 

Reinstating someone on the throne in Summer’s side had not been easy afterwards. There was talk of joining together the two kingdoms now that their two kings are married, but that would be impractical, and Tony had been adamant in his decision to make Pepper the new queen. Pepper had argued with him for hours on that one. 

Tony jolts from his thoughts when Steve pinches him, evidently having realized that Tony’s attention isn’t all here. Tony jabs Steve in retaliation, breaking away slightly to do it, before kissing him again.

“So, you’re not swayed at all by pouts huh?” Tony says smugly, picking up their previous strand of teasing when Steve finally breaks the kiss, but only to a small distance, their breathes still mingling.

Steve blinks for a second, not placing the digression, before it clicks and he rolls his eyes. “Oh my God, let it _ go. _” 

“_Never _.” Tony declares dramatically. “You watch Steven G. Stark-Rogers, I’m gonna hold this thing over you for the rest of our lives-” 

Tony interrupts himself with a yelp of laughter as Steve suddenly picks him up as easily as anything, walking over to deposit him gently on their bed. 

“Rest of our lives huh?” Steve laughs warmly from above him, and Tony’s breath still catches when Steve looks at him like that, with those gorgeous blue eyes of his, like Tony’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, even after all this time. 

“Of course.” Tony says matter of factly, pulling Steve down so that their bodies are flush against each other. “Stuck with me. Always.” 

“Sounds like a plan.” Steve whispers, closing the distance to kiss him.

And after that, there’s not much talking for a very long time. 

_ Fin _

**Author's Note:**

> I suck at endings :(( But I hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> Comments give me life and as always, thank you for reading! :)


End file.
